


Survivors of Hazzard

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Dukes of Hazzard, Dukes of Hazzard (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Apocalypse, Gore, Horror, Original Character Death(s), Violence, Work In Progress, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every fandom needs a good zombie!AU. Survivors of Hazzard follows beloved characters as they fight off hordes of the undead in an effort to find some semblance of sanctuary in the shattered remains of Georgia: post Z-Day. Do the Duke boys stand a chance when the General Lee is pitted against an army of rotting corpses? Can Enos and Rosco survive in the wilderness and find other survivors? And where is Boss Hogg? Stay tuned to find out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rosco's Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy everybody! This here is my first Dukes of Hazzard fic, and my first published fic on AO3. To say I’m excited about it would be a massive understatement. This fic is my baby – I’ve been nurturing it since it was just a random plotbunny for months now, and have only now got the first chapters the way I want them.
> 
> I’ll put some warnings here, and you should read them if you intend to read my fic:
> 
> 1) I don’t own Dukes of Hazzard, or any of the canon characters.
> 
> 2) I do own minor OCs (the Duncan family and the tramp in chapter 1, for example.) While there may be more  
> long-lasting OCs later on, the main ones are, for the moment, very disposable, and usually used as target practice.
> 
> 3) This is a zombie!AU. This means you can expect all the gloriousness that is that genre: horror, gore, blood, guts, violence, BAMF moments, firearms… the works. If that kind of thing freaks you out then DON’T read on.
> 
> 4) Also, seeing as I am a big queer baby, I can’t promise there won’t be some slash at some point in here. Right now I just don’t know. We’ll see where things go. But if you’re uncomfortable with that, you should probably steer clear just in case. The same goes for sex of any kind (because again, we’ll see) and (potential) canon character death.
> 
> If you still want to read this, then, good on you! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Seeing as it is my first Dukes fic, I appreciate any feedback you can offer, especially re: characterization, voices, overall style and flow, etc.
> 
> Last but not least, please, don’t flame me. I'm eager to improve my skills, so if you have something negative to say, try to put it constructively so I can learn from it. Thanks. :)
> 
> That’s it for now – buckle up and enjoy the ride!

* * *

Now, y’all probably know that in Hazzard County, there ain’t no guarantees that things are what they appear to be. In all his years of police service, both moral and crooked, Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane had never seen anything quite so bizarre and unnatural as what he had that fateful morning of the outbreak, when he was called out to a farmhouse to investigate a disturbance. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight of pretty Tessie-Anne Duncan staggering, blood-soaked, into the yard, groaning and gurgling, her mother’s arm clamped tightly in her teeth.

It was bad enough to see it happen, but it went to hell fast when she spotted the Sherriff, dropped the arm, and lunged.

Rosco didn't have time to think before he put a bullet through her head.

Now sitting in his patrol car, on a winding back road, he was crippled with guilt, repulsed by what he’d done. Obviously the girl had been sick in her brain – and instead of taking her to a doctor, he’d killed her instead. Even if he could claim self-defence, which he could, possibly, it wouldn’t legitimize the act. He’d seen Tessie-Anne grow up in Hazzard – she was only sixteen – and he’d just ended her life like it was no big thing.

He glanced at the empty passenger seat and swallowed hard. At least he’d left Flash at home. That dog had been acting funny for days, all nervous like she sensed something was up. Thank Heaven for small mercies, he thought absently, the brief coherent phrase tearing through his racing mind like it was on a tickertape, here and then gone just as quick. The thought of Flash seeing something like that…

Rosco shuddered. Hands shaking, he raised the CB radio to his lips and clicked the button.

“Enos, y’got cher ears on?” he asked, trying to keep the image of Tessie-Anne falling to the ground, her face blown open. He looked down absently and noticed a piece of flesh stuck to the leg of his pants and had to fight a sudden urge to throw up.

“Yessir,” came the chipper reply. “I’m almost at the farmhouse, sir.”

“N-no! No, Enos, I don’t need no backup – y’ jus’ go on back to the station, now git!” Rosco exclaimed. There was a confused pause on the other end.

“Well… all right, Sheriff, if that’s what you want.”

Rosco didn’t respond, letting his hand fall into his lap. He tilted his head back, shut his eyes, and inhaled deeply, trying to slow his racing heart. The smell of blood and the image of poor Tessie-Anne and her mother made the breath choke him on its way down and he barely had time to lean over and open the door on the driver’s side before he was emptying his stomach all over the road.

It took him ten minutes to calm himself, and ten more to drive back to town, and Rosco had spent every last second of that time convincing himself that he’d imagined the whole thing. It didn’t work all that well, what with the blood spatter that was all over him, but he was going to keep it up for as long as he could. Unfortunately for Rosco, that wasn’t all that long.

He pulled his car up beside the curb to park outside the police station just moments after Enos did. Enos was still outside, but had his back to him, trying to talk to a drunken tramp sitting on a park bench.

_Maybe I can jes’ get by him, an’ clean m’self up an’… an’…_

_Uh oh._

Rosco scarcely had time to brace himself for the recoil as the tramp unleashed an inhuman growl, lunging at Enos, and Rosco drew his weapon and fired for the second time that day. The angle was poor, and he wasn’t able to get a clean headshot at first, like he had with Tessie-Anne. Instead, he clipped the man’s jaw, blowing it clean off. The tramp roared in anger and pain, his tongue lolling out against his throat as blood gushed from him like a geyser, and turned on the sheriff, as his deputy stared, saucer-eyed with horror.

It took two more shaky shots to finally put him down.

“Possum on a gum bush, Rosco… what did you do?” Enos exclaimed, white as a sheet, save for the faint misting of blood and innards that had sprayed on him. He stared first at the crumpled corpse of the tramp, then at the sheriff, and then back at the tramp again.

“We don’t got time for jawin’, Enos – y’gotta trust me – that weren’t no tramp, you was talkin’ to! C’mon!” Rosco pushed past the stunned deputy and threw open the door to the station which, thankfully, was deserted. Enos, definitely spooked, followed gingerly.

Once inside, the weight of what had just happened finally descended on the sheriff.

“L-l-lock us in!” Rosco forced out through chattering teeth, his own hands shaking too much to be of any use. He’d taken two lives today and it wasn’t even noon yet. Disgusted, he ripped his shirt off, and his undershirt, and staggered to the bathroom where he began scrubbing frantically at the gore on his face and hands. Even though his clothes had absorbed most of it, there were still patches where his chest hair was matted with viscous, drying blood.

Enos timidly appeared in the doorway, rapping his knuckles against the frame to announce himself.

“What’s goin’ on, Sheriff?” he asked quietly.

Rosco turned off the tap and braced himself against the sink, panting, shivering as water ran down his neck and stomach.

“I s-shot Tessie-Anne Duncan,” he confessed, and he felt his eyes begin to water. Normally he’d be embarrassed – grown men aren’t supposed to go around crying in front of each other, after all, and he had to set an example for Enos – but he was too far gone with fear and distress to notice the tears as they spilled over. “I ain’t nuts – she, she weren’t herself. Y’hafta believe me – I din’ wan’ t’shoot her, but she jes’ came at me… she… she had blood all down the front of her, Enos, an’ she had been… she’d been chompin’ on her… chompin’… she done turned int’a cannibal!”

Rosco hunched over and brought up what little fluid was left in his stomach. Even when he was empty he kept heaving, his knuckles white as he gripped the sides of the sink. Enos watched for a few minutes, unsure of what to say, or do. It pained him to think that Rosco had snapped – despite the older man’s sometimes prickly demeanor and frequent put-downs, Enos liked the sheriff enough not to want to see him end up in an insane asylum – and it’d be that or prison for him, now.

_I should cuff him,_ Enos thought, but couldn’t bring himself to do so when his superior was upchucking in the sink and crying and all. Instead, as if by their own free will, his feet carried him over to Rosco’s side, and he laid his hand gently on the man’s shaking shoulder.

“Sir, I think y’ should come with me an’ sit down. Y’should change first, though. I’ll go get ya somethin’ t’wear, an’ I’ll be right back, an’ then we can talk this on through. How’s that sound?”

Rosco didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either, so Enos reluctantly left him there to go get him some pants and a shirt. They weren’t regulation but rather some civilian clothes for whenever the law had to go undercover. Against his better judgement, he glanced out the window as he did so and spotted the body of the drunk. He shook his head in disbelief. He knew the sheriff had been under stress – he always was, since he’d lost his pension. Still, to think he’d gone crazier than a hoot owl and he hadn’t shown any signs…

When Enos returned, the sheriff was curled up in a ball next to the sink, wearing nothing but a worn pair of underpants, and rocking back and forth slightly, sobbing. Enos approached him and awkwardly tapped him on the shoulder. Rosco flinched and when he looked up, the sheriff’s teary swollen eyes took a while to focus.

“E-Enos?” he whispered, as though he’d forgotten the deputy had been with him just moments before.

“Here y’are, sir,” Enos said, handing over the clothes and turning away to preserve the sheriff’s modesty. Once Rosco was dressed, he took the man by the arm and gently led him over to the jail cell. Rosco recognized the bars and began to fight the grip on his elbow, writhing and shouting.

“Don’t you put me in there, Enos Strate! Don’t you lock me up! I ain’t nuts! I jes’ saved yer life out there – I ain’t crazy so don’t you lock me up!”

“I’m not lockin’ you up, Rosco. I’m puttin’ y’here because there’s room for the two of us to sit down side by side an' be comfortable,” Enos said, wrestling his superior onto the bench.His explanation placated the sheriff, despite it being only half-true. He’d lock Rosco up if he had to, much as it pained him to think about it.

Once Enos had gotten Rosco to sit down, he took a seat next to him on the bench.

“Are you sure you’re feelin’ alright, Sheriff?” Enos prompted softly. He wasn’t sure, but he’d heard it said that if you spoke real quiet to a crazy person, they wouldn’t see you as a threat, or attack you. He sincerely hoped this was the case.

“I dunno,” Rosco sniffed. “No… I ain’t crazy, Enos, and I ain’t a killer, neither… I don’t take no pleasure in it. But the things I saw and did today… like my own nightmares were walkin’ in the middle of the day… to tell y’ the truth, I’m not sure what to believe.”

He looked more defeated, more human in that moment than Enos had ever seen him. He patted Rosco’s knee.

“I… I think maybe I should telephone for a doctor,” Enos began but Rosco shook his head.

“I don’t need a doctor because I’m not sick an’… an’ I know how to prove it to you!”

All at once, Rosco jumped to his feet, which made Enos jump as well, as a reflex. Rosco’s mood had gone from despair to a more unsettling manic ecstasy that was making his deputy nervous.

“I can prove it, prove that I’m as sane as you are, _khee khee khee!”_

Enos swallowed, not sure he liked where this was going, and yelped when Rosco grabbed his shoulders firmly and swung him around, to face him.

“Enos, git’chur gun. We’re goin’ back to the Duncan farmhouse.”


	2. No Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this chapter a good long while, but figured I'd have to post it eventually, so here it is. I don't own any of the characters except the Duncans and Harold Patterson, the radio broadcaster. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

As the patrol car made for the secluded mountain road that led to the Duncan’s farmhouse, Enos tried to reassure himself that everything was going to be fine. Still, he wished he were driving. It felt like tempting fate, letting Rosco take the wheel while he was having what was shaping up to be a legendary psychotic episode. Enos just hoped it wouldn’t turn violent when they got to the farmhouse and found it in perfectly normal condition.

_What if it ain’t?_ he thought, anxiously, glancing at Rosco’s wild, determined expression out of the corner of his eye. _What if Rosco did really snap and shoot that poor girl?_

Enos knew the answer to that. If Rosco made a move to hurt anyone else, he’d have to shoot him. The gravity of that thought weighed heavily on the young deputy. He didn’t want to have to shoot the sheriff. He didn’t want to have to shoot anyone at all, particularly. He’d much rather be back at the police station eating his lunch, or maybe over at the Duke’s farm, talking to Daisy.

At last, the car rounded a final corner and the Duncan’s place came into view. Rosco pulled the car up and parked in front of the property. He was already halfway out the door when Enos got out from the passenger side, took one step, and slid into the dirt. He looked down in surprise and then disgust – he’d slipped in a puddle of vomit.

Getting to his feet and shaking his leg off gingerly, Enos hurried over to where the Sheriff was standing stalk still, looking at something on the ground. From the distance, it looked like a body, and Enos’s heart sank.

It was Tessie-Anne.

But something was wrong. Enos counted the number of limbs on his fingers; all four were there, but there was an extra arm laying a few yards away.

“What…? Sheriff? Whose- whose arm is that?”

When Enos looked up from the severed limb, the sheriff was gone. He panicked for a moment before spotting Rosco at the front door. It was still unlocked from when Tessie-Anne had come out, and he was opening it.

The sight that awaited the law inside was not a pretty one. Mrs. Duncan’s corpse was crumpled on the floor of the sitting room, her stomach ripped open, flies already delighting in the hollow where her innards had been.

It was Enos’s turn to throw up.

He was straightening back up and wiping his chin when a flash of movement caught his eye. Rosco cussed and jumped back – they weren’t alone in the house.

Enos recognized Mr. Duncan as he staggered out of the bedroom towards them. He looked strange, his skin too pale and his eyes unfocused. He was growling.

The old farmer sunk to his knees and dragged himself towards his wife’s body as the onlookers watched, rooted to the spot with fear.

Mr. Duncan looked at them and his growling stopped. He looked back down at the corpse and reached out, almost tenderly, and tucked some of the bloodied stands of blonde hair behind his spouse’s ear.

Then, he opened his mouth and stuck his face in her stomach.

Enos grabbed Rosco’s arm and ran for the door. Mr. Duncan rose unsteadily to his feet, some of his wife’s flesh still in his teeth, and chased after them, blood and guts running down his face.

_“Getinthecarhurryupc’mon!”_ Rosco screamed, throwing the door open. Enos had only just got his door closed when Mr. Duncan smacked the window, leaving a bloody hand print on the glass.

“Drive! Drive! Drive!” Enos urged desperately, and Rosco floored the pedal, and the car tore away, leaving Mr. Duncan in its wake.

“Oh… oh gosh,” Enos moaned as they sped down the road.

“Toldja I wasn’t nuts,” Rosco hissed through clenched teeth.

“What was wrong with him?” Enos whispered. “What could make someone… do those things?”

“I dunno – I ain’t seen nothin’ like it b’fore.”

Enos stared at the bloody handprint on the window and shivered when a thought occurred to him.

“Rosco?”

“Yeah?”

“You shot that man in town, ‘cause he was sick, like the Duncans?”

“Sure did.”

“How many more people are sick, d’you reckon, then, Sheriff?”

A look of realization appeared on Rosco’s face and he paled. Suddenly the radio crackled to life; it had been left on, but switched to the emegency channel, and up until then, had been silent.

“To all residents of Hazzard County, Georgia, this is Harold Patterson with an emergency bulletin.”

“Patterson… I heard’a him, he’s on a news station in Atlanta!” Enos exclaimed, turning the volume up. The radioman continued.

“Stay in your homes – I repeat – stay in your homes. Barricade yourselves. Do not trust outsiders. Keep an eye on your loved ones for signs of sickness – pale skin, degeneration in language ability, strange behaviour. Infected individuals will be animal-like, growling and aggressive. They will attack and kill if provoked, even in the early stages. Their bites will pass the infection. One more thing, listeners:

**There is no cure.** If you see the signs in anyone, you must shoot to kill. Put them down, before they have a chance to spread the sickness. Do not try to save them – it can’t be done. Don’t let sentiment keep you from pulling the trigger – they will not hesitate to kill you. I’ll be keeping you as up to date as possible, soon as there’s anything more to say; this is Harold Patterson, saying good luck, God bless, and make every bullet count.”

The broadcast ended with a few seconds of static. Enos and Rosco looked at each other.

“We need to find somewhere to stay – somewhere with supplies,” Rosco said and Enos nodded slowly.

“The police station?”

“The police station.”


End file.
